Aragorn's Family Jools
by LilyBaggins
Summary: Slash FrodoAragorn. In response to a challenge to write a story in which Aragorn has a hole in his breeches. Silliness.


Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, just have fun with embarrassing these characters (and myself).   
  
****  
  
"If you look up at that sky one more time, Mr. Frodo, you're going to wear a hole in it."  
  
I smiled at Sam, but I still couldn't help but glance upward every few minutes, wondering if the fearsome crebain would return on this, our second day in the land of Hollin. Biting into the juicy, rather spicy sausage Sam had just doled out, I turned and saw that Gandalf, who sat next to me on a large, flat rock and puffed on his pipe, also had his eyes turned to the sky.   
  
"Do you think they'll return, Gandalf?" I asked.   
  
The wizard shook his head. "I hope not, Frodo. But we can never be too careful, as the spies of Saruman take many forms. In fact, my heart tells me we should move out of this land soon. Aragorn!"  
  
The ranger looked back from where he spoke with Legolas and Gimli and strode toward us, coming to stand next to me and smelling of leather and smoke and other musky scents. He wasn't wearing his long coat; just his tunic and muddy leggings and full arsenal of weapons. As usual, I felt a little self-conscious and strangely restless when he neared, especially when he bore that no-nonsense look, as he did now.   
  
"Aragorn," Gandalf spoke up again, "I worry about our staying here, in the open like this, for too long. Something may be watching and I've an idea . . ."  
  
Aragorn nodded, casually hiking one leg up on the rock beside me and leaning an elbow on his thigh as the conversation continued. It was a typical Aragorn pose, and I did my best to ignore his proximity and the fact that because of my height, he probably didn't realize that I if I turned my head but a little to the right, I would have a perfectly unobstructed view of his lean thighs and everything in between them.   
  
In an effort to keep my eyes straight ahead, I concentrated on my food, but suddenly Pippin laughed loudly and on instinct, I glanced up and to the side and then, unable to help myself, fixed my gaze just where I *shouldn't* have —and nearly dropped my sausage even as Gandalf and Aragorn's talk went on about me.   
  
Speaking of wearing holes.   
  
Apparently, the ranger's size was just too much for the ancient, worn-out fabric of his breeches to handle, because the seams over the bulge of his crotch—and trust me, was it ever bulging—were splitting apart with no mercy for his dignity or my not inconsiderable moral scruples.   
  
It was an extremely large tear that looked to have been previously mended with sturdy cotton thread. But whoever the seamster, the sewing certainly wasn't up to the task of the sprinting, turning, stretching, jumping, rolling, and well, everything else Aragorn put his garments through. Not to mention the sheer *size* of the man's . . .   
  
Now, in fact, if I squinted, I could just glimpse a wee bit of bare skin there, too, attesting to the equally bad state of his undergarments. Pinkish skin . . . oh dear, I can't go on. Suffice it to say it was rather obvious what parts of him were, with just a few more twists and turns, going to be hanging out for all eyes to see, friendly or no.   
  
"You are correct, Gandalf," Aragorn was saying, completely oblivious. "We should indeed travel by night and . . ."   
  
I hastily averted my eyes, afraid someone might notice the rosy blush I could feel infiltrating my blasted pale cheeks. But all were still talking, so I risked another peek. I feared the straining fabric had reached its limit, and I wondered whether to mention it. Would it embarrass him terribly? Would he be angry I had looked? Pondering this, I alternated between nibbling at my food and risking glances at Aragorn's altogether fascinating "family jools."   
  
"What think you, Frodo?"  
  
I jumped, but luckily I was in nibbling mode and not glancing mode, so no one saw anything amiss. And I was thinking about a great many things, but at that precise moment, none had to do with crebain or spies. "What? I'm sorry . . . what do I think about what?"  
  
Aragorn grinned at me nonchalantly, and I found myself wanting to run my fingers through the wavy strands of hair caressing his face. "Trust a hobbit to be so engrossed with his dinner. We were discussing our travel plans—move by night and seek shelter to rest by day. It will afford us more secrecy should any spies be watching."  
  
"A good idea," I answered, nodding and doing my level best to look up at Aragorn's face and keep my eyes from darting to other, straining, areas. When would he discover this? Did he already know the tear was present? Could he not feel it cutting into his most tender areas?  
  
"It's settled, then," Aragorn said. "Pippin shall be pleased that we will enjoy a few hours more rest now." He stretched sideways to look back fondly at the younger hobbits, who were wrestling with Boromir, and moved his legs farther apart in the process. Something down there must have shifted then, causing the edges of the torn fabric to bite into Aragorn's flesh, because the man's head suddenly snapped back and he scowled as he turned away and bent to inspect the damage between his legs. "Confound it. I cannot see why these breeches have ripped wide open again when I only just mended them in Rivendell . . ."   
  
"Your stitches were too long," I blurted out, not thinking. As soon as I issued the words I realized I'd given away my surreptitious peeking and could only look down, a furious blush creeping up my cheeks. Next to me, Gandalf chuckled and Sam seemed to be pointedly ignoring all three of us.   
  
Aragorn's head popped up and I could tell he was staring at me---probably with one eyebrow raised---even though I avoided his fierce gaze.   
  
"Well, I'm sorry," I said, "but it was all right there, and how could a hobbit sitting so close to you fail to see it? If you had used shorter, tighter stitches when mending it, then this wouldn't have happened at all and we would not now be having this conversation." Finally, too curious to see Aragorn's reaction, I looked up to meet his eyes and received one of the shocks of my hobbity life.   
  
Aragorn was actually blushing. In fact, he had pinked up quite nicely---his face, that is---and I found myself doing a double-take. Irritation or indifference was to be expected, but not the high color in the man's cheeks. I wasn't the only one who noticed it, either, as Gandalf seemed greatly amused.   
  
"Why, Aragorn . . . I do believe you are turning red!" the wizard exclaimed, slapping his knee and blowing a smoke ring in the air.   
  
"I most certainly am not."  
  
"You are, my friend. This may be a first, and I quite wonder why. The heir of Isildur, blushing like a virgin bride?"  
  
"Gandalf . . ." Aragorn's voice sounded ominous.   
  
I was just about to find a good reason to excuse myself from the impending foray and my own intense embarrassment (now that the scenery was gone, anyway) when Legolas's soft voice called out over the wind. "Birds . . . possibly crebain . . . and it looks as if they are headed this direction!"  
  
All of us knew not to dispute elven eyesight and the whole company scrambled for cover. I hadn't much chance to do more than clutch the Ring tightly in my fist, however, before Aragorn hauled me up and practically dragged me by the collar to the relative cover of a very large whortle-berry bush.   
  
"Go, Frodo," he said, with a not-too-hesitant shove to my backside. So I quickly threw my pack down and crawled under the bush, curling up as tightly as possible. Aragorn followed, and I found myself pressed firmly against the length of his body as he shielded me . . . our faces only inches apart. Oh. Dear me.   
  
Now that the scenery was getting good again, my cheeks grew hot. And having been brought up properly by good parents and then Bilbo and thinking I might be in this situation for who knew how long, I felt obligated to say something about my earlier indiscretion. The crebain---if indeed that's what they were---I tried to put out of my mind for a moment as I spoke.   
  
"Aragorn, I'm sorry," I whispered, keeping my eyes glued firmly to the silver-clad jewel at his neck. Which happened to be laying in the hollow of that hard, slightly-wet-with-sweat bare chest . . . "I know it's silly of me, but I hope you're not angry with me, that Gandalf---"  
  
"Sssssh." Aragorn's voice, soft and rough, did nothing to ease the warm heat spreading through my groin. Ever so gently he tipped my chin up with one hand. "Gandalf is wise enough to know that I do not blush easily. Do you think I would have been embarrassed if it had been anyone noticing that but you?"   
  
I didn't know whether this was good or bad and quirked an eyebrow, trying to keep my voice calm although his parted mouth, so close I could smell the pipeweed on his breath, caused me some distress. Why, if I stuck my tongue out . . . "Because I am an innocent hobbit, to be protected from such sights?"   
  
He chuckled, his eyes teasing. "Innocent? Hardly. Because if you really want to know, you looked as if you enjoyed peeking at me, Frodo, and I find that idea quite . . . enticing. You may seem to be a proper, genteel hobbit most of the time, but I think I know better." His callused fingers moved up, softly caressing the curve of my cheekbone.   
  
Suddenly the flutter of hundreds of bird wings intruded and I crushed myself harder against Aragorn's chest even as his arm tightened about me.   
  
"Aragorn . . ."  
  
"Keep still."  
  
Our eyes met, and before I knew what had gotten into me I hesitantly leaned forward and pressed my mouth to his, feeling the scratchy beard rasp against my flesh before his own lips gave way to heat and wetness. The kiss, gentle at first, turned hungrier and more desperate as our limbs entwined about one another and the cries above grew louder.   
  
"They cannot see you, Frodo. You are safe," Aragorn murmured, breaking apart from me just long enough to provide reassurance.   
  
Perhaps it was the danger that set my heart to pounding so; perhaps it was Aragorn's warmth wrapped around me, distracting and protecting me from the spies of Saruman; or, more likely, I was bewitched by his wandering hand slipping down inside the back of my breeches. Whatever it was, I liked it, and as I stroked his lean hips the man gasped, fingers tangling in my hair.   
  
A moment later we stilled, as all had grown quiet again around us. Reluctantly shifting away from each other a bit, we glanced skyward. Aragorn squinted and sighed in relief. "They are gone. Let us stay here for a few moments, however, to make certain they do not return."  
  
I smiled, burying my head in the hollow of his collarbone. "I've no problems with that."  
  
We lay there for a while, trying to set our breathing to rights, before Legolas's and Gandalf's voices reached us. "Is everyone all right? Frodo?"  
  
"He's fine, and here with me," Aragorn called out to the others, the vibration of his chest against my ear quite nice. He sighed then and stroked the back of my head. "Well, it seems we must return to the others now . . . if Gandalf is looking for us it means the skies are clear."   
  
Nodding, I moved away from his warmth and crawled out from under the whortle-berry, brushing the sandy dirt from my knees and fumbling with my untidy shirt tail.   
  
As Aragorn rose he laughed, shaking his head.   
  
"What is it?" I asked, wondering if he was regretting the kiss. But it seemed not to be that, for I was greatly amused a moment later by the sight of the ranger sitting on his haunches and cautiously examining the area between his legs with the utmost dignity.   
  
"I just realized . . . I believe my breeches have split even further. Perhaps as a direct result of our . . . activities. I know I've a needle and thread in my pack, and now it looks as if I can put off the repairs no longer. Although I have more experience sewing battle wounds, I am afraid, than garments."  
  
I craned my neck and glanced over, ostensibly to see the extent of the damage, but actually, just because I wanted another glimpse of what I'd been treated to earlier. "You can't go walking around like that, for certain." I paused a moment. "I'm not too bad with a needle and thread, and Sam's very good at sewing, much as he hates to admit it. Take them off when we get back and one of us will mend them quickly."   
  
"But I have no other clothing, Frodo, and I do not think I wish to be unclothed from the waist down, even for a short time, should the Enemy's minions happen upon us. Though we travel in stealth, such is always possible."  
  
I shuddered to think of the Enemy, but at the same time, the image of Aragorn wielding a sword while partially naked gave me a small fit of the giggles. "Well, maybe you could just pull them down a little while someone mends them, so that if we're ambushed you can pull them up again quickly---"  
  
Aragorn speared me with a look. "If you think I shall allow anyone come that near to my bits with a needle in hand, no matter how nimble hobbit fingers may be, you're quite mistaken."  
  
"Well, I don't see you've got much choice but to do something quick," I said. "You're at more risk of losing the family jools to some fanged land animal than coming across the Enemy naked. And actually, your coat is plenty long enough for you to go without breeches for a while."  
  
But Aragorn had stopped listening to my last sentence, it seemed, and now stared at me, his face curious. "What did you just say?"  
  
"Your surcoat, it's long---"  
  
"No, no, what was that about 'jewels?'"  
  
I felt more red creeping into my cheeks. "Jools. J-O-O-L-S. You know, Aragorn . . . the er, male parts down there."  
  
He said nothing, merely raising an eyebrow. "A hobbit term, I gather?"  
  
I nodded, hefting my pack. "Yes, I guess so. That's what we've called them for as long as well, as I've known I possessed them myself, I suppose. I still remember giving Lotho Sackville-Baggins a good kick in the jools as a tweenager . . ."  
  
Aragorn rose then, looking amused, and glanced upward briefly as if in supplication. "How is it I can have traveled for so long and across so many miles with hobbits and still only now learn about this very important word? Now at last my curiosity is sated, for I've heard Pippin mutter it a few times in frustration and have been meaning to ask its origins."  
  
"Well, we don't use that word in polite company too much, of course. Not around . . . the lasses. Or elves, for that matter." I sighed, thinking of my little cousin. "As for Pip, it seems I'm going to have to wash that youngster's mouth out with soap. That is, I would if I had any to spare."  
  
Gandalf's voice reached us again. "Aragorn? Are you two hiding? We must move on!"   
  
"Just a moment!" the ranger answered somewhat crossly, securing his coat over his midsection (much to my chagrin), before turning back to me. "Well, my coat will serve to hide this rent in my garment until it can be sewn up. I shall then take your advice and remove the breeches the next time we camp, letting one of you mend them swiftly. Otherwise, I suspect I'll be driven to distraction and worry, as it were, about my exposed family jools."  
  
I looked up at him and smiled broadly, shouldering my pack. "It will certainly drive me to distraction, Aragorn, to envision the danger to such. I shan't be able to think of anything else."  
  
"Oh, Frodo." Kneeling before me, his long hair swinging, Aragorn grabbed my shoulders and kissed me soundly on the lips. "I shan't be able to think of anything but what passed between us moments ago under the bush." He grinned, leaning forward to whisper in my ear. "Soon for us, dear hobbit. And if you show me your jools sometime, I will be only too happy to show you mine again."  
  
I shivered a little at Aragorn's frank speech and hot breath, and emboldened, let my hand brush his suede-covered backside. "A deal struck."  
  
He rose, and together, we made our way back, Aragorn wincing as a cool breeze blew past.   
  
The End 


End file.
